


Oh, Death, won't you spare me over till another year?

by SinpaiCasanova (Bladerunnerblue)



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Canon Disabled Character, God(dess) of Death, Guardian Angels, Infinity Gems, M/M, Name Changes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Religion, Sick Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, child birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladerunnerblue/pseuds/SinpaiCasanova
Summary: And while it’s true that men worshipped the Celestials that reigned over the stars, building monuments, alters, even offering them sacrifices to win over their favor and gain their blessings, as time went on, and precious life was lost, one God in particular quickly fell out of Man’s favor.Death was viewed as a cruel monster no matter the cause, slipping into homes like a thief in the night to take the cherished souls of loved ones both young and old alike for whatever reason Fate saw fit to take them. And so the God was cast into obscurity, cursed for what he was and what he did, and there were no more offerings brought to the cloudy forests of Vormir–the entryway to Death’s domain. No more prayers uttered at alters that bore Death’s true name. No more monuments made in his honor.Or, the one with God of Death Bucky falling in love with human Steve.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 30
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpecialHell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpecialHell/gifts).



> For this iteration, and to keep up the pretense that Sam and Bucky are Ancient Celestial Gods, their names have been changed to Samecea (Sa-meh-see-a) and Bucchae ('Bu-kē) so technically Bucky's name only changed in spelling, not pronunciation lol
> 
> Also, I want to thank my lovely beta reader for helping me with this. SpecialHell, you're the best♡

In the beginning, and with the sudden and violent birth of the cosmos, six singularities–celestial beings torn from the very flesh of the multiverse itself–were born. Each the very embodiment of the cosmos they were crafted from, they were charged with a specific realm to maintain, ensuring the continued existence and survival of the multiverse they ruled over, lest it falls into unimaginable chaos. 

There was Samecea, God of life, wisdom, and the divine ruler of Midworld–the planet they called Earth. Valkyrie, Goddess of the stars themselves, fierce protector of the multiverse. Bucchae, God of Death, keeper of souls, and divine ruler of the Underworld. Natalia, Goddess of time, keeper of past, present, and future. Loki, God of verity, the bringer of misfortune and prosperity alike. And, of course, the most powerful and empyrean of these Celestials, their self-proclaimed king, Thor, held infinite domain over the heavens, breathing life into the empty void of space one perfectly crafted galaxy at a time.

However, to maintain the delicate balance between order and chaos among them, Thor stripped the Celestials of their heavenly energies, instead, containing them within the protective gem of a ring they each wore. So long as their flesh touched the gem, the Celestials would remain gods among the men they’d created, but so too could men become gods, if the ring ever fell into their unruly hands.

And while it’s true that men worshipped the Celestials that reigned over the stars, building monuments, alters, even offering them sacrifices to win over their favor and gain their blessings, as time went on, and precious life was lost, one God in particular quickly fell out of Man’s favor.

Death was viewed as a cruel monster no matter the cause, slipping into homes like a thief in the night to take the cherished souls of loved ones both young and old alike for whatever reason Fate saw fit to take them. And so the God was cast into obscurity, cursed for what he was and what he did, and there were no more offerings brought to the cloudy forests of Vormir–the entryway to Death’s domain. No more prayers uttered at alters that bore Death’s true name. No more monuments made in his honor.

Bucchae was now the enemy of man, a villain in their eyes, and so he was forgotten, condemned to spend eternity alone, wandering among the trees of his domain without a single soul that cared to know him beyond the veil of death. And as centuries passed like grains of sand in an hourglass, and as the multiverse grew and expanded along with Thor’s ambitions, bursting at the seams with life, the Gods themselves had forgotten him too.

Well, all but one.

Fate and Death were more closely intertwined than people realized. Natalia reigned over the future that would come to pass, deciding when the thread of life was going to be cut, and once it was, Bucchae would deliver the icy kiss of death and usher their souls into the underworld, where they’d remain until Samecea saw fit to spin them a new thread again.

It was a good arrangement they had, each helping the other fulfill their duties to the multiverse they maintained; Natalia cutting life short for some, extending it for others, and always at the end of the line, Bucchae would be waiting to take them to the realm of the dead, where they’d wait to be reborn.

But yet, despite his duty to the multiverse and the responsibility he’d been given to complete the cycle of life, the God couldn’t help but long for something more than what he’d been given. Something gentler, warmer than the frostbitten forests of Vormir he was eternally bound to.

He longed for the recognition the other Gods were so freely given, of course, but above all else, the God of Death just wanted to be loved.

* * *

It was snowing lightly when she came to him, the night sky crystal clear overhead and the stars shining just as brightly as the day they were made from nothing more than dust and light.

Bucchae could still remember each of the names Valkyrie had given to them, even though it had been a few centuries since he’d seen the Overworld in all its heavenly splendor and glory. Heaven was not meant for him, he knew that well by now, but it never did stop him from longing to see what it had become since he was cast out to live among the humans in shadow.

He sighed, watching the frigid air around him swirl with fresh snowflakes. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to how cold his body remains, even in the summer months when the heat is damn near unbearable and the humans have to take refuge in the cool river by the edge of the forest just to get a little relief. 

Sometimes, when the sting of isolation becomes too much for him to bear, Death will linger by the entrance to his domain, cloaked in shadows to avoid unnecessary detection, and he’ll watch them for a while, envious of how free they truly are. Able to taste and feel and experience the life they’ve been so graciously given.

The frost of his touch covers everything in his realm, from the trees around him to the hard earth under his bare feet, and so he’ll place a finger in the river to cool the waters for them, smiling at the surprise they show and the joy that comes swiftly after, but they almost always give thanks to Thor for the small mercy Death had shown them, and so his smile has become just as reclusive as Death itself.

“Is this of your making?” Someone said, and he turned, delighted to find the Goddess standing in the snow behind him, right palm cupped in an attempt to capture the slow-falling snow. “I do enjoy the snowfalls of Midworld, but I prefer to admire them from a distance.”

Bucchae huffed, amused despite his melancholy. Natalia never made it a secret that she found Vormir to be a little too...well,  _ lifeless _ for her taste. Bucchae tended to agree with her on that.

“Not a fancier of the cold, are you, Natalia?” He quipped, pale lips turned up in what the humans might call a sneer if it wasn’t done in such good nature. “Though, I think the frost admires you, what with how it clings to you so beautifully.”

“Such a charmer, you are,” She grinned, coming closer to Death’s side yet still leaving enough space between them so that they wouldn’t touch. “That silver tongue of yours could coax the soul out of anyone, Bucchae.”

Death’s face fell at that, lips crumpling into an almost petulant pout. “I assume that’s why you’re here, as well? Our arrangement never did call for sympathetic visits made to the land of ice and snow you love so dearly.”

Natalia didn’t provide him with a response to his jab, instead, she let the heavy stillness fall around them for a moment too long, but her silence was all the answer Bucchae needed. Of course, he adored Natalia for never treating him as a lesser God for what he’d been tasked to do, but he also knew that for her, friendship wasn’t a part of the agreement they’d struck.

This alliance they had was for the good of the multiverse, and nothing more. Sometimes, though, it was difficult for him to remember that.

She pointed to a spot near the open treeline, then, where a presence Bucchae had never felt before was lingering closer to his domain than anyone has dared to in years.

“Do you see that woman, praying at the shrine by the river?” The Goddess asked, voice as soft and quiet as the thick blanket of snow around them. The fiery red of her cloak billowed a bit as an icy breeze swept in, the curls of her long copper-red hair now dusted with frost.

Bucchae looked a bit closer, the blue of his eyes incandescent against the deathly pallor of his skin. And there she was, just as Natalia had said, kneeling in the frozen soil by the riverbank, her hands folded in prayer and melodic voice carrying her frantic plea out along the trees of Vormir to its intended audience: Natalia herself.

“I do, yes,” Bucchae replied, wary. “And what of her?”

The goddess’ face twisted with grief for a moment, her emerald eyes closing tightly as if the mere thought of what she’d have to say would wound her. Bucchae hearkened to the silence left in her wake, ears picking up the loud drumming of the woman’s heartbeat with his preternatural senses, and there, faint and weak, but still there nonetheless, was the reason for Natalia’s pause.

“She’s with child.” 

“She is,” Natalia murmured, and he could hear the distress in her voice as the words passed her rose-stained lips. “Eight cycles of the moon have already passed, and she is doing well, but...”

Bucchae hesitated, immediately catching on to where the Goddess was going with this, and he didn’t care for it one bit. He could hear the prayer the woman was sending up to the Goddess who reigned over the fate of mankind, begging her to spare the life of her only child.

“You wish for the soul of the child, or the mother?” The words tasted like bile on his tongue, but it also wasn't the first time Death had seized someone so young. Nor would it be the last, for that matter.

“It is not I that wishes for this, Bucchae,” She said, defensive. “Loki has forced my hand, cursing Sarah, my most devout priestess, with misfortune. She has already lost her husband, and now her only tie to him has been corrupted with illness and suffering.”

“Joseph,” Death recalled, thinking back to the fire that broke out in the village, and the brave man that lost his life trying to save the others. Bucchae knew him well.

“You remember him?” Natalia sounded surprised, which Bucchae could understand. There were millions of souls on Midworld that Death had personally ushered through the gates of the Underworld, one person should have been an impossibility for him to recall so clearly.

He glanced down at the amber gem of his ring, pulsing against the cold skin of his index finger. Even now, he could hear the voices of the dead and dying, crying out in a chorus of screams for mercy. Mercy that he’d always show the ones who were worthy of it.

“I remember all of them.”

Natalia pursed her lips, hand raising up as if to offer him comfort before thinking better of it, then lowering back down to her side. 

“This must be done, Bucchae,” She stated, and with a burst of green light, she revealed the thread of life that would soon be cut; lifespan shortened, thread weaved from gold–a trait of a strong moral character, the fibers thick with potential that was soon to be snuffed out. What a waste, honestly. “When the thread is cut, the babe will die. It’s your duty to see him through the gates of Vormir. If his soul lingers in his body, he will be spared.”

“I know well of my duties, Natalia.” Death sighed, weary. “You needn't remind me of them.”

“So it will be done then?” She asked, though as she watched the woman, Sarah, begin to weep over her son, there was an unspoken plea in her eyes. One that she would never give voice to.

_ Spare him. Please. _

“Yes,” He answered, though he wasn’t sure which request he was acquiescing to. “It shall be done.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Two cycles of the moon passed since Death had made that promise to Fate, and dutifully, Bucchae had kept his word. Cloaked in shadow, he watched over Sarah and her growing son, who, unfortunately, had only gotten weaker the longer he’d remained in her womb. If Death listened closely, which he often did, he could hear the baby's heartbeat skip and slow at times, struggling to keep up with the demands his tiny body placed on the weakened organ. 

It broke Death’s icy heart to know that pain and sickness were all that this innocent creature would ever know, and sometimes, when empathy got the better of him, Bucchae would sing songs to the boy; his ghostly voice carried out on a gust of icy wind from the forests of Vormir. And although they were meant to soothe, and because they came from the God of Death himself, the songs were eerily haunting in nature, and the village often mistook the melodic breeze invading their streets for something ominous and cursed. 

Sarah, who was as devout as they came, considered these songs as a warning sent from the Gods, and so she prayed to them often to gain their blessing, but never once did she offer a prayer to Bucchae. In fact, she often cursed Death vehemently, warning the God to stay away from her and those she loved. 

He understood, truly, he did. Sarah had already lost so much in such a short time, so of course she would blame Death for the misfortune she’d inherited from Loki. But still, despite everything, Bucchae kept his promise and watched over her.

* * *

It was an early morning in July when the baby finally came, ushered into this world in a hail of thunder and lightning that shook the earth with the force of its might. Sarah was alone on the bed, crying out into the emptiness of the bedroom she once shared with her beloved Joseph, whom Death reaped almost a year prior. But her pleas for mercy did not go entirely unheard, for the God of Death was near, dutifully lingering at the edges of his domain, waiting until the time was right to reveal himself.

Natalia, however, vowed to remain in the Overworld until the deed was done, wholly unwilling to watch as further tragedy befell her faithful priestess. She trusted Bucchae, trusted in his word that he would see the task through. Though, which task she was actually asking of Bucchae was entirely up to him to decide.

This night could end one of two ways: he either took the boy’s life, or he didn’t. Whatever happened afterward was of no concern to Death. By now he’d come to understand that his place in Midworld was lingering amongst the trees and eternal frost of Vormir, not meddling in the affairs of man, who'd shunned him out of hatred and fear. The only reason he was even contemplating sparing the life of this boy was because he’d held Natalia in such high regard, and Death would do just about anything he could to appease the Goddess of Fate.

Apparently, even break the laws of the Multiverse they vowed to protect.

Death inhaled deeply, closing his pale blue eyes as the faint scent of sweat and sickness filled his senses like a sickly sweet perfume. He could hear the quickening of her breath, the pounding of her heart, and from the increasingly loud sound of Sarah’s wailing, he could tell that it wouldn’t be long now before the baby was here and Death’s choice would have to be made.

With a sharp snap not unlike the breaking of bones, the cloak on Bucchae's back ripped in parallel lines down each side of his spine, and a pair of glossy, raven-feathered wings sprung out from the ragged gashes in his flesh; the bones of his shoulder blades bowing outward to support the weight of them as they gave a tentative flap. Knees bent and body poised, Bucchae took flight with a powerful thrust, soaring up into the sky to blend in among the heavy rain and blackened clouds.

The ring on his finger was especially restless, pulsing with the promise of a new soul to feast upon. And though Bucchae tried to tune out the incessant wailing of the dead, each time he prepared to reap a life from this world, their voices would always become louder for a time; desperate for an audience with Samecea, who offered new life to those he deemed worthy of it.

Despite that, he could admit that it felt good to stretch his wings, to feel the warm wind and rain on his skin, watch the lightning streak through the darkened clouds as he weaved through them on his way to get to her. Although, and almost predictably, the joy he found in flight was short-lived, for the closer he came to Sarah’s home, the stronger the scent of death became. 

In his heart, Bucchae knew the ailments this boy suffered from would be fatal all on their own. A weakened heart, constricted lungs. Maladies birthed from the blood in his veins and the marrow of his tiny bones. He’d be nearsighted, partially deafened, with flat feet, a crooked back, and failing organs. He’d be constantly stricken with illness and pain, live a life filled with nothing but seclusion and discontent.

Death knew how the humans treated the ones that were not fit for labor, who couldn’t pull their own weight in a society where your worth was tied to how much you could offer your fellow man. This boy would be shunned, same as him. But a life lived in obscurity and rejection is no life lived at all.

That, of course, was a truth Death was familiar with all too well.

His arrival brought the unnatural cold along with it, and as his wings wrapped around his shoulders to better conceal his presence from Sarah, nothing, however, could hide the way the window panes began to obscure with frost from the inside.

Death paid it no mind, moving through the house with a singular purpose as quietly as a shadow would. 

He’d never stepped foot in this home before now, but he couldn’t help but notice how inviting and warm the space Sarah dwelled in really was. Painted sketches of family members lined the wooden walls within, and the glow of a fire smoldering in the hearth of the living room danced along the handmade furniture worn down from use and time.

This was once a happy place, filled with love and devotion unmatched by any other Bucchae had yet to come across. But in the span of a year, one tragedy after another gifted to them by an envious Loki had robbed them of the peace they’d once found in each other, and now the walls of this home wept for what once was and will never be again. And Death wept right along with them.

Bucchae followed the sound of Sarah’s wretched sobbing to the bedroom, where she’d just given birth all alone to a tiny, two and a half pound baby boy, who barely had enough breath in his withered lungs to cry. And Death watched as Sarah cradled him in her trembling arms, holding him close to her body in an attempt to comfort them both.

“Why have the Gods cursed us so?” She asked, voice breaking around a sob like a wave against a rocky shoreline. At that, the babe in her arms struggled to breathe, noisily wheezing around the fluid left behind in his chest, and Sarah, listening as her only son rapidly lost the battle he’d never had a chance to win, fought with every fiber of her being not to scream out in anguish. “My sweet, innocent boy. My little Steven. What have we done to deserve this?”

 _“Nothing,”_ Bucchae answered in his mind, familiar with the question he often heard from the village. _“You are but pawns in an everlasting game of chess to them. The Gods will bless you in the morning, and curse you at night. Simply because they can.”_

With a forlorn sigh, Death took a step forward, crossing the threshold to the bedroom where Sarah grieved.

Almost immediately, the condensation built-up on the bedroom window froze over into a sheet of thin ice, and the air in the room quickly plunged into temperatures so frigid he could see Sarah’s breath billowing in front of her nose and mouth like smoke.

She stiffened, drawing her newborn son closer into the protective warmth of her arms. Sarah’s head slowly turned in his direction, seeking him out where he stood in the doorway, but all she could see was a blackened figure sucking all the light and warmth from the room like the void he truly was.

“No,” She whispered, and as if he could sense the God’s presence as well, the baby began to weakly wail against her chest, fighting with all the strength he had against his own demise. “Not my son. _You cannot have my son!”_

It was then that Bucchae let his cover fall away, revealing himself to Sarah in all his terrifying glory.

Predictably, she gasped. Death knew what a horrifyingly unnatural sight he was to behold, with skin as pale as newly fallen snow, greying lips, long, blackened hair that fell to the small of his back, and silver-blue eyes that seemed to glow against the darkness of Sarah’s bedroom. 

He was a winged, clawed, fanged monster here to devour the only tie Sarah had to her dearly departed husband, and that was all she would ever see in him.

Bucchae winced at the sharpness of her tone, swallowing around the lump that had grown in his throat. He could smell the fear radiating off of her, mixing with the scent of death and disease that was already present here.

“I take no joy in doing this, Sarah,” Death said, and his voice seemed to echo in the room as if he were speaking into the mouth of a cave. Sarah merely tightened her hold on her son, unwilling to trust Death’s word so easily. “Surely, you can see that your son is sick. I’ve come to give him peace.”

“You’ve come to take my son from me, you devil!” She bit back, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “He is stronger than you say, and I will not let you have him!”

It’s admirable, Sarah’s fierce devotion to her family, but that does not change the fact that her son is rapidly dying. Even now, Bucchae can feel Natalia’s blade chewing through the golden thread that made up Steven’s life, which was the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth. But yet, she is right about one thing. This boy is stronger than most, and despite all that he had against him, he continued to fight. 

This would not be a war so easily won. Steven would see to that, even if he didn’t know why he was fighting this battle to begin with. Looking back, it's that inner strength that stayed Bucchae's hand in the first place.

“He is,” Death agreed, taking a few measured steps forward until he'd reached the edge of the bed. Sarah watched him warily, angling herself so that Death couldn’t easily reach the baby in her arms. “But is this what you really want for him? A life filled with pain and suffering is all he would ever know.”

“You’re wrong! I can give him more than that,” She spat, stubbornly determined to change Death’s mind, and Bucchae smiled despite himself. That same bullheaded conviction was a trait he could also sense in the boy, among other things. If he lived, and life was kinder to him, there wasn’t a thing he set his mind to that he wouldn’t be able to achieve. Perhaps this was the reason Fate asked him to spare the boy’s life? That untapped potential was bubbling under the surface, just waiting to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. Perhaps she had plans for him, and couldn’t see them through if Death had taken her champion to the Underworld. 

The Gods always did love their heroes.

 _“Please,”_ She begged in a softer voice, allowing herself to become vulnerable in the presence of death. “He is all that I have left. If you wish to take him, you’ll have to slay me too.”

Death shook his head, and with a particularly loud crack of thunder, the delicate thread of life was cut, and the baby took his last shuddering breath wrapped in the comfort of his mother's arms.

This was it, the moment when he decided if this boy lived or died.

He leaned down, hovering over Sarah, but taking care not to touch her. Just one touch, one single brush of skin on skin, was all it took to separate a soul from its body. Even for a God, who was effectively immortal compared to the fragile humans they’d created.

This was why Bucchae could never experience the warmth of another’s embrace, or feel the weight of a hand on his shoulder. His very presence carried death and destruction with it, and this was how it would always be.

But rather than complete the cycle and take the boy’s soul, Death, knowing the consequences fully, chose not to touch him.

At that moment, something in him rebelled, and he couldn’t for the life of him see this through.

He thought of Sarah, of Joseph–whose frantic words echoed from the heart of the ring on his finger, begging Death to spare his only son. And though he wouldn’t realize why until much later, Death chose to spare the boy’s life, which is something he’d never done before.

Cautiously, Bucchae backed away, and in the absence of his deathly presence, the baby, who’d grown cold and still, once again took a breath, and he watched as the color flooded back into his skin, chasing away the darkness like a rising sun after a long, cold night.

Sarah, struck motionless and silent with shock over the kindness he’d just shown them, sobbed. But this time, her tears were not made of fear and sorrow, but of hope and joy.

Bucchae did not know what to do with them.

“You are not all that they say, are you?” She asked once she could speak again, an air of gratefulness in her voice. “You have shown us kindness when other Gods have not. Humbly, I thank you, Bucchae.”

Not knowing how to accept her offering of gratitude when all he'd ever know was hatred, Death nodded once and diminished, turning back to the shadows from whence he came.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!♡


End file.
